


Addicted

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Jensen and Jared used to be best friends, but when Jared gave in to the temptation of an addictive habit, Jensen ended their friendship with a heavy heart. Years later, Jared comes to find Jensen for help and to reconcile, but he finds a broken hearted man. They stay together, even though the other's presence does more harm than good. Neither can deny the growing sexual and ultimately romantic feelings between them.





	1. Chapter 1: Not Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Not Grey.

 

 

Inside a colorful room, where the floor was blue and the walls were yellow and the bed was red and the chairs were green and the animals were pear, peach and purple sat a man, colorless and still. His face was white, his clothes were black, his demeanor was grey. He was dressed to be invisible yet stood out like an ink-stain on the most vivid of paintings as he sat hunched over near the bed in a chair too small and too colorful for him. 

 

Once in a while his long arm would move to flip a page of the red book in his lap, with little words but many pictures and his lips moved as he read, but no one listened. 

 

His voice was quiet and monotone, his storytelling was poor, but each word that barely audible left his lips made the red seem a little redder and the green a bit more green. The yellow had never been as bright as the times when he spoke with such heartening care, not even the sky blue rug was left unaffected. 

 

He read and he read, soft word by soft word. His only silent pauzes were filled with the sound of the pages of the book he held delicately in his hands, being turned gently and carefully. Even the smallest rip or fold would be a devastating disgrace. And then the colors lit up once more as the words on the next page were allowed to escape his lips and dance across the room where they slowly vanished into air.

 

Through the curtains - checkered yellow, red and blue - past the window, the world was cold and white and grey and black, like the man inside. 

 

The wind swept with whistling sounds by the outer-wall and shook the windowpane. The branches of an old, bald tree outside scratched the brick wall. Flakes of ice fell down from the black, unforgiving heavens above, thickening the white blanket that covered every unprotected surface. More and more fell, till the streets were lost and the cars half buried.

 

Everything was quiet. The streets were empty. Everybody was inside, enjoying the warmth of their homes and their loved-ones. There wasn't any night in the year quite like this one. Tonight was special. Everyone had an excuse to put on their most beautiful clothing and set the table with the real silver and grandma's china. 

 

Tonight was special, yet the colorless man didn't dress any different from how he used to, nor did he read the book differently, nor was the room different. 

 

He still wore his old black coat, his fading black sweatshirt, his worn black jeans. He had walked into the room with heavy army boots. His hair had been tousled by the wind, there was no use in taming the strands. His face was just as white as the night before. 

 

His reading was no more enthralling, nor any more boring than on other nights.

 

The bed was still placed with the headboard against the wall. The shelves were still cluttered with toys and stuffed animals. The chair the man occupied never left the right side of the bed. The curtains still hung half in front of the window like he had left them. 

 

And the figure underneath the sheets is as quiet as ever. Breathing evenly. Completely unaware of the man's presence. Completely oblivious to his words. A soft, innocent face but white and sickly. 

 

Down the hall, which was too bright, people were singing, but their joyful song did nothing to the barren walls of the hallway. Beyond the door it was as cold as beyond the shut window. 

 

But inside the green twirled, the yellow swirled, the blue swam and the red jammed and this was nearly enough to drown the black void sitting at the bedside, the gloom that hunched in the tiny seat and flipped the pages with calloused fingers. The colors enveloped him. With every word he uttered the colors grew more violent and stalked closer as his figure became smaller and smaller, shrinking away to fit his seat. 

 

Each syllable of those words were like stabs to his heart and the pain was visible on his white, tormented face. But he kept on reading. Because it wasn't about him. It wasn't about him tonight, like it hadn't been about him the previous night, nor the night before, and neither will tomorrow night be or any other night to come. 

 

Only what he did whilst roaming the cold white plains outside this room was about him and it was sad and meaningless, like he had become, more so every day. His visits were about the quiet, thin figure on the bed, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and big innocent eyes that took in the room with the same excitement and wonder each time he opened them. 

 

For him, with sunrise dawned a new life and yesterday no longer existed. Everything was new, everything was interesting. Everything needed to be rediscovered. And the next day the whole process would be repeated. 

 

For there was no yesterday for him. There wasn't even a 'this morning' or 'this afternoon'. He'd forget. He'd forgotten. 

 

There was nothing special left. Not even on this night. Because there were no nice clothes to wear. No grandma's china to set. No memories to reminisce. No stories to share. No jokes to tell. No songs to sing. There was only them, they had nothing to offer each other but awkward smiles and shaky embraces. 

 

The man knew there was no sense for him to keep on telling and keep on reminding him. It would only prove to be upsetting for the both of them and each sparkle of remembrance in those cobalt eyes only flared up false hope, left to be nothing but crushed when morning comes and he found that once more the night's sleep has erased the sparkle to leave blank and questioning eyes. And yesterday, no matter how special he’d made it, or how special it had been to everyone else in the world, would be lost forever in the darkest depth of his mind. 

 

And then all the colors would go dull. The red of the sheets. The green of the chairs. The blue of the rug. The yellow of the walls. 

 

The whole world would be left dead and grey.

 

But as the colorless man read the last passage for the night, lost and numb, unheard and unloved, he knew he'd be back tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. Day after day till the day either of them was no more. He would read and he would talk and he would laugh and let the colors attack him till they had no strength left to live and he would watch them die. But he'd keep on reading.

 

Because he could live without the red. He could live without the blue. He could live without the yellow. He could even live without the green.

 

But he could never, no matter how dull, no matter how bland, no matter how empty, no matter how distrusting, live without the cobalt. He was willing to do whatever it takes to keep that color alive.

 

Because it might not be special, but it wasn't grey either.

 

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?"


	2. Chapter 2: Rod Steele and Troy Bendover

  
Author's notes: The previous chapter was Jensen's intro, this is Jared's intro, taking place in college years, beofe the main timeline of the story.   


* * *

Rod Steele and Troy Bendover

 

 

On a cold and dark night, hidden in an alley even colder and darker than the rest of the world, two men shook hands, one eager, with a firm grip, the other wary, with a sweaty palm. 

 

"Never shook hands on it before." The older one of the two said with a baritone chuckle. As he had eagerly gripped the youth's hand to 'seal the deal', he reached down to unbuckle his pants with uncontained excitement. The button, straining to hold the two flaps of his pants together, gave more resistance to his fidgeting. "You're really hot." He breathed, enjoying their closeness greedily. "I'll pay you double if you let me fuck you." One hand stilled over his open fly, the other he reached out. "How 'bout we shake on that?"

 

"No." The voice of the other was strong and adamant, a breath hitched in his throat, a feeling of weakness creeping up on him. Awareness of the situation flooded him and any moment, he thought, he would bolt out of there, but it never happened. Senses alert he made clear to the man, pushing the offered hand away, "I only do blowjobs."

 

There was disappointment evident in the long sigh. "Fine. But hurry up, it's fucking cold out here." Before the young man could kneel before him, he forcefully grabbed his pointed chin and made him look him in his eyes. "You'd better make this worth it." He warned, glaring at the handsome young man with his small, beady eyes. 

 

With nervous flutters in his stomach the younger one kneeled, all of a sudden the older man he had been looking down on all evening, towered above him. Looking up he couldn't see much more than an under-chin with rough stubbles. Every part of his being screamed at him to run, in his mind he already was, but the only limbs that would move were his arms, to place his hands on the older man's hips, holding him still. 

 

This is wrong, he thought, feeling awkward and embarrassed as he looked at the rigid cock right before his eyes. So wrong. But he needed to do this if he wanted to feel good again. His whole body shuddered, it knew what it needed and it needed it fast, or another attack would hit him, like that afternoon in the middle of class. He clenched his eyes shut, remembering his body shaking violently on the linoleum floor of the classroom. The last thing he remembered was concerned faces hovering over him. One face he remembered in particular. His heart clenched painfully at the memory. What happened between then and the nurse's station he couldn't remember. That amazing, sweet voice told him he had passed out. He had opened his eyes to see the worry had disappeared, the face had become indignant and insulted. 

 

I'm so sorry. He said inwardly. Not to Jensen, Jensen wouldn't accept his apologies any more. He apologized to himself. There was a time when he had been better, stronger, but that time has passed. And he was sorry for that, but at the same time, accepting. 

 

"What the fuck is taking so long?" His 'client' grunted impatiently. 

 

He promptly stuck his tongue out as far as it would go and ran the tip of it over the red, angry head. The man groaned with approval. That wasn't so bad, he convinced himself, though his body rejected the logic and remained heated and uncomfortable. Another quick, experimental lick, awarded by another deep moan. 

 

He wrapped his hand around the base of the man's dick, keeping him preoccupied and satisfied as he kept licking the head, working up the courage to do more. When fingers delved deeply and encouragingly into his thick hair, he had the innate feeling of being on the end of the diving-board, people backing up behind him. There was nothing else to do but jump. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth, wrapping his lips tightly around. His tongue moved back and forth with more confidence, stroking the sensitive skin in a rhythm that was well-appreciated with a long, drawled "Yessss". 

 

His left hand, which had been useless, resting in his own lap, he brought up to stroke the balls. His chilled fingers made the man gasp, but the moans returned when he started rolling them gently in his hand. Breathing deeply through his nose he inched his lips further down the length of the shaft. For a short man, appearing to be of Asian decent, he was substantially endowed. When he felt like he couldn't take in more and his throat had stretched to accommodate as much as it could, he started to bob his head. Gingerly and uncertain at first, but the man's moans and groans made clear he was enjoying the ministration and he carried on, his confidence fuelled by misplaced pride at how much he could please the man. 

 

"That's good."

 

He almost rolled his eyes. It was pretty obvious the man was experiencing it as 'good'. If the moans and groans weren't telltale enough, the hard cock burning and throbbing in his mouth was. 

 

He could tell the man was looking at him. He was 'hot', he had been told so by his previous client. That man had only gotten a hand job. Looking back on it, he thought, he should have sucked that first client. He was hot. A hard, toned body. He had felt the ripples of his abs and the definition of his broad chest when he had the man pushed against the brick wall of a similar alley. It had been erotic. 

 

He moaned as he felt himself becoming aroused, picturing that other man. That stunning, beautiful man. He had never met him before then, made sure to seek him out in a club he normally didn't go to and where he knew none of his friends went. He didn't even know if he was gay himself, when he had that man caught between him and the wall. But his experimentations proved his hypothesis as they shared passionate, enflamed kisses, their tongues fighting for dominance, both of them getting hard and feeling restrained in their pants. 

 

"Jerk me off." The man had said with a heavy, demanding voice. 

 

He moaned again as he fantasized about that night. The vibrations of his mouth pleasured the short, Asian man. 

 

And he did. He jerked him off the same way he jerked himself off, at home, alone in his single bed. He had been surprised at how easy it had been. He had feared he would feel alien and uncomfortable, but all he had felt was lust. He had only touched his own hard cock through the rough fabric of his jeans. Any more and he would have come and he would have been useless, weakened by orgasm and sated to the point of silly. He had looked at the man's face, watching his expression carefully, enjoying the power he had over the man with his finger wrapped around his dick. 

 

"I'm close." The Asian guy warned, his grip on the locks of dark hair tightening. 

 

He took his hands off the man's balls, he wouldn't need the extra stimulation. He could tell by the way the sac was taut and the balls drawn to the body and the way the erection pulsed in his mouth that it wouldn't take much more to make this man climax. He used the hand to undo his own jeans and reached inside his boxers to stroke himself. He had only been half hard, but at his touch his erection quickly grew, the tip nearly reaching his bellybutton. With his hand he made a tight tunnel around his cock and he thrust into it with a slow rhythm. Each time he drew back, he ran his thumb over the head of his cock, till he was getting close himself. He closed his eyes and fought to return to the other night. 

 

"Finish me off." The gorgeous man had purred.

 

His ear had burned at the rush of hot air from his mouth. He had been eager to see what this guy looked like when he climaxed. He quickened his pace and tightened his fist. Though inexperienced, he knew what it looked like and sounded like when a man was close, as an adolescent he had had a lot of 'first hand experience'. With expertise he had undone his own jeans and pulled his painfully rigid cock out to stroke it with his left hand. Normally, he couldn't achieve much pleasure with his left hand, his movements uneven and uncoordinated. But he had been so turned on by the situation it took nothing more than a few arrhythmic strokes to reach his pleasure high. His vision had gone black as his eyes rolled back into his head and he pressed his body flush against the man's, overwhelmed with the most intense orgasm of his life. His body had felt hot, the fire blazoned in his dick. For a selfish moment he had forgotten all about the man it had been about in the first place, as he enjoyed the aftermath of his own orgasm. 

 

"You okay there?" The man had asked with a friendly chuckle.

 

He had pulled his body away from the warmth, it all rushed back to him: he was in an alley, with a complete stranger. He had looked down at the man, his cock was softening. "Was it good for you?" He had blurted and then frowned at his own voice, timid and uncertain, not how he wanted to be perceived. "I mean, did you come?" He had asked in a more masculine tone. 

 

The man had smiled and nodded towards his abdomen. "Yeah, all over your shirt."

 

He had looked down at his shirt. He didn't feel dirty at all. Rather relieved, that finally there was an answer to the question he had been asking himself a long time. 

 

Fortunately, he noted, he had been wise enough to catch his own come in his hand. He wasn't sure how much, if at all, the man could appreciate him coming all over his expensive looking silk shirt. 

 

He had frowned when the man reached deep inside the pocket of his jeans, after zipping and buttoning up. 

 

"How much do I owe you?"

 

The question had been a painful insult, but he was too confused to retaliate. 

 

"Will twenty cover it? It was only a hand job and you came too, after all." The man had pressed a twenty dollar bill into his dirty, sticky hand. 

 

He had never expected to be paid. Never intended it to be business. All he wanted was to know. And he did and so much more. His own come and the twenty dollar bill in his hand solved two problems that had troubled him. 

 

With the Asian man starting to thrust into his mouth, he sped up the pace with which he was working to bring himself to climax. Even though coming would reduce his 'fee', it made him feel less dirty. It kept him balanced - though precariously - on that fine line between being someone who has casual sex and being someone who sells his body. 

 

Only his heart knew the truth, but had gotten apt at ignoring his heart. 

 

"Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh Yeah!" with a final spasm a warm, bittersweet liquid was shot against the back of his throat. His own hand on his cock stilled as he fought the urge to gag. He leaned back, releasing the man from his mouth. With his hand he leisurely stroked the man a few more times, milking him, making sure he would be willing to pay the full price. He turned his head to the side and spat the come onto the ground, the dark kept his grimace from being seen. He worked quickly to bring himself to orgasm as his client rode out the waves of a satisfactory orgasm. 

 

It was difficult, now that the heady rush was gone and he was all too aware that he was on his knees in a dark, filthy alleyway. He finally came with a quiet yelp, just as the man buckled up his belt.

 

He remained on the ground a little while, in no hurry to button up. With the back of his hand he wiped away the combination and come and saliva that had leaked from his mouth, down his chin. 

 

"You were pretty good." The man admitted, opening his wallet.

 

He gave him a dangerous glare. He had been more than good. First time or not, that grin on the man's face meant it had been more than 'good', so he deserved 'more than good' compensation. 

 

"You did come yourself." He nodded towards the youth's cock, slowly softening in his lap, his fly still wide open and exposing him, but he had no shame, he flaunted his God given gift of attraction. "But since we shook on it." He joked and threw three bills at him.

 

Two he caught against his chest, the other drifted away with the wind and landed in a puddle three feet away. He would get that one later, looking at the bills in his hands, it didn't matter much. He had caught the more valuable ones, the wayward bill was only worth five dollars. 

 

"What was your name?"

 

"Jared." Stupid! He immediately thought, he shouldn't have given him his real name! Not because he was afraid of his identity being revealed, but simply because it wasn't a very sexual name. Not fitting of his current 'profession'. Rod Steele or Troy Bendover was more fitting now. Who was going to remember Jared Padalecki? Jared was just Jared. That no good kid that would never amount to anything and was only capable of letting everybody down. 

 

"Maybe I will see you again some time, Jared."

 

He looked down at the cash in his hand. "Maybe." He said softly in the dark as the man's footsteps faded. Despite his efforts, he started to feel dirty anyway.


End file.
